


Disability

by Cloudlb



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Alternate Universe, Jim Copes, M/M, Pre-Slash, Shaman!Blair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-17
Updated: 2010-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-07 08:40:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cloudlb/pseuds/Cloudlb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim receives a devastating diagnosis and learns to cope alone--for a while.  Blair reads the signs and portents.  Liberal abuse of canon and fanon; gratuitous appearances by wolf and cat. No sex, sorry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disability

Real men don't cry. That was a maxim inculcated in him by his father long before he entered the army. But real men do swear, don't they? "Fuck, fuck, fuck! I am so fucked!"

Jim sat on the edge of the couch in his loft, trying very hard to be a real man, his head in his hands. The papers which contained his "sentence"--not a death sentence, but close to it--were crumpled in a ball on the coffee table in front of him. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he wiped his eyes (not tears, damn it!) and smoothed out the papers. The words, "Disability" and "Permanent" and "Diagnosis" leapt out at him. His vision swam and pulsed as he tried to focus on the papers that kicked him permanently off the force on an 80% disability pension. The papers that took away his ability to drive for god's sake--he, an Army Ranger qualified to drive every land vehicle on the planet, now couldn't even toodle his beloved Sweetheart to the fuckin' grocery store!

Jim groaned, his internal anguish matching the physical pain endured over the past few months. Months in which his body had turned traitor on him. Jim had always counted on his body. He kept it in top shape, and in turn, demanded and received top performance from it. Until the goddamn Switchman case and the stakeout in the woods. Ever since then, he had been experiencing mysterious symptoms. Horrible rashes and hives, excruciating headaches, foul tastes in his mouth, and ringing in his ears were among the more frequent symptoms. It seemed everything that could go wrong did: Diarrhea, constipation, drowsiness, insomnia, hyperactivity, dizziness, fatigue, mental confusion, body aches--the list went on and on. Sometimes he couldn't stand the taste of food or water, or the touch of his clothes. Everything seemed out of whack, especially his senses. His sight, his hearing--hell, all of them, seemed to phase in and out uncontrollably. One day he was nearly deaf, and the next deafened by ceaseless noise. He was allergic to everything. Everything hurt. And even though the doctors couldn't exactly determine what was going on, he sure wasn't making it up. Oh no, especially the worst part, the "atypical absence seizures" as the doctors called them. Those seizures-- fugue states where he suddenly blanked out and couldn't be brought round--were the most frightening symptom of all, and the one that hammered the last nail in his almost-coffin.

He picked up the papers and shuffled them until he got to the doctors' treatment printout. What a bunch of crap! He flipped through the pages. Avoid pesticides and fluorescent light. Avoid all scented products--duh. With the reaction he had to the lightest perfume, that one was a no-brainer. Wear only 100% organic cotton or natural fibers. Drink and bathe in filtered water. Meditation. Medical marijuana! Jesus Fucking Christ! They wanted him to turn into some kind of hippie dippie algae drinking moron. And worse--they wanted him to see some kind of New Age-y witchdoctor punk! Sighing, he leaned back and remembered the painful conference earlier in the day with Dr. McKay, his treating physician, and the neurologist and allergist working on his case.

 

*

"All right, Jim. After consultation and review of your test results, we are prepared to render our final diagnosis in your case. The diagnoses we will present are Atypical Absence Seizure Disorder, Atypical Sensory Processing Disorder, and Multiple Chemical Sensitivity." McKay looked at his colleagues and sighed. "We're not entirely happy with the diagnoses for a number of reasons. However, the most serious of these conditions from the occupational point of view is the seizure disorder. Until we can get a handle on the cause of that and a workable treatment regime, I'm afraid we are recommending permanent disability. As you know, you have reacted negatively to the anti-seizure disorder medications, as well as the allergy medications and the range of drugs we have tried for your symptoms, which leaves us with very few options."

All Jim could think about was the phrase "permanent disability." His career as a detective was down the tubes because of this shit, obviously. The smells of the hospital, added to the stress of the moment, were making him nauseous. Geez, what did McKay do at lunchtime, bathe in garlic? He tried to focus on what they were telling him. "So what does this mean for me, docs? Does this mean there is no treatment?"

McKay looked uncomfortable. "We have suggestions for you, and referrals, but you haven't responded to any of our conventional treatment modalities. We don't like to admit it, but traditional Western medicine works best on acute problems, not chronic disorders like yours. And as much as we are fascinated by your particular presentation, we are pretty much stumped by it. We can't find anything in the medical literature that precisely matches your condition."

The specialists were nodding their eggheads at this pronouncement, Jim noted sourly.

"And unfortunately, your range of diagnoses includes Multiple Chemical Sensitivity, or MCS, which is regarded by, let's say, extreme skepticism, by the mainstream medical community. It is, however, precisely congruent with your symptoms, more so than the other two diagnoses, which are atypical, so we are forced to include it."

Jim stared at the doctors ranged before him, eyes narrowed at the pity he could see in their faces. After a long, uncomfortable silence, McKay continued. "Yes, well, since you haven't responded well to conventional drug treatment, we have compiled a list of alternative therapies and accommodations for you." He gestured, and the allergist, a handsome older woman named Dr. Mondrian, held out a substantial sheaf of papers to Jim, which he reluctantly accepted. "The theory behind MCS is that some people exhibit extreme sensitivity to environmental toxins. For that reason it's also been called Environmental Illness or 20th Century Disease. The suggested treatment for this syndrome is avoidance of environmental stressors and toxins. Purify your air and water, eat organic foods, use all natural cleaning and personal care products, that sort of thing. Many people who claim MCS relocate to rural areas, where there are less environmental poisons."

"So, what--you want me to go live in the woods somewhere?"

McKay shook his head. "While it might be helpful in reducing your symptoms, I regret I cannot recommend that course of action at this time, primarily due to your seizure disorder."

Jim was about to lose his temper and bop the doctor one. Regret I cannot recommend! Blah, blah, blah. What a bunch of yahoos. He took a deep breath and tried to remain calm. McKay was actually a decent guy who cared about his patients. Nevertheless, he crossed his arms across his chest and gave them his best perp-intimidating stare. "Explain."

"You live alone, don't you? No spouse or close family?"

". . . Yeah. So what?" Jim's clothes were starting to itch. He rubbed his hands up and down his slacks, futilely.

"Living alone is not an optimum situation, with your seizure disorder currently untreated."

"Well, I do live by myself, doc. You know that. What--are you suggesting I be put in a home?" Jim couldn't help it. His volume and tone rose with panic.

"No, no. Not at this time, at least. Having a familiar, stable, environment can only help you. But I do suggest that you enlist a . . . spotter of sorts. I think you need to think about hiring a home health nurse, or at least a college student who can check up on you periodically. Perhaps arrange for a daily call at a certain time, with a follow up visit if you don't respond. I don't want to think of you entering into one of your fugue states for any length of time without being checked. It's also important to keep in touch with your friends and support system, and not isolate yourself at this stressful time in your life."

Well, isn't that just fucking great, Jim thought. I need at nanny at age 37. "So, that covers the weird symptoms and the trances. What about the problems with my senses?"

The neurologist spoke up, with rather too much enthusiasm for Jim's taste. "Those remain one of the most puzzling aspects of your case, Mr. Ellison. Sensory Processing Disorder is usually found in children with a suite of related behavioral and developmental problems, which you don't exhibit. Things like autism and speech problems. Adult onset of this type of sensory disorder without the related behavioral problems is outside the realm of the literature, and I'm sorry to say we don't have too many options for treatment. We would like to continue to study this phenomenon, with your permission, of course."

Over my dead body, Jim thought. Oh, wait--he'd probably like that. The neurologist was Jim's least favorite of the trio.

McKay looked sideways at the other doctors, and took up the gauntlet. "Based on your anecdotal data, the seizures seem to be related to overuse of your senses, or oversensitivity. We recommend that you keep a journal and record your day to day symptoms, any seizures and stimulus. The best we can do, Jim, is to suggest that you focus on mind-body awareness by experimenting with meditation and mind-body disciplines such as yoga or tai-chi. And practice using your senses--but not without a spotter!

"We are also going to refer you to Dr. Elizabeth Swinburne, an osteopath and naturopath, who works with some excellent occupational therapists. In your case, because of the chronic nature of your symptoms, we feel that a holistic, alternative approach to your medical care is a good option for you."

Dr. Mondrian added, "Your only other option is a medical specialty called Clinical Ecology, and frankly, we wouldn't send you to those quacks on a bet."

Jim glanced down at the list of suggested "treatments" the doctors had given him. The light in the office seemed to throb in time with his heartbeat, and his stomach threatened to throw up the emptiness inside. "Is that it? Keep a journal and eat organic foods? I'm losing my fucking job here. I can't eat! I can't sleep! And you want me to see some kind of goddamn witchdoctor?"

Dr. McKay made a funny chuckle-cough noise. "Dr. Swinburne is a respected medical professional and the occupational therapists should be very helpful to you but--funny you should mention that. There is one other person who we feel you might consult. His name is Dr. Blair Sandburg, and he's a professor at Rainier. His specialty is ecological anthropology, but he's also an avowed Shaman. He's an expert in . .. ."

The pulsing light suddenly flashed into brilliance, obliterating not only the rest of the doctor's words but the world itself from Jim's awareness for a while.

 

*

Jim blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to work some moisture back into them. He realized with a sinking feeling that he'd done it again--gone into one of those trance states while absorbed in his memory. Christ, the whole thing was such a fuckup! Organic foods, my ass, he thought. At least they didn't try to tell him the whole thing was in his head. That's all he needed--an official diagnosis he was crazy. He didn't need that on his record.

Especially since he knew it was the absolute truth. The incontrovertible evidence was curled up like a gigantic kitty cat next to his woodstove. Well, hell, he thought philosophically, stepping over the gleaming black panther as he headed into the kitchen to get himself a beer. I always wanted a cat, and if I have to be crazy and have an invisible friend, at least it's not a white rabbit!

"Good Afternoon, Anthropology Department. How may I direct your call?"

The voice of the phone was young, and way too perky. Jim grimaced. "May I speak with Dr. Blair Sandburg, please?"

"I'm sorry, Dr. Sandburg is away for the summer in the field. May I take a message for him?"

Goddamn it! "When do you expect him back?"

"I'm not certain, sir, but certainly before the fall term starts."

Goddamn it, Jim thought again, rubbing his temples. Witchdoctors should keep regular hours, shouldn't they? He sighed. "Yeah, sure, I'll leave a message . . . "

 

*

Simon Banks pushed open the door of The New Brewery on Prospect and scanned the sparse afternoon crowd. Unlike a traditional pub, the space was light and airy, and he had no trouble spotting his friend sitting in a booth toward the back. Sliding into the booth opposite Jim, he looked with favor on the pitcher of beer that Jim was pouring from. Even though it was only 3 in the afternoon, he was off work after a double shift which culminated in the apprehension of a major drug syndicate player, and a cold beer sounded great right about now.

"Hey, Simon. You look like you could use one of these." Jim pushed a tall glass of foamy brown brew toward him.

"Hey, yourself, and you're right about that." Accepting the glass, he eyed his friend. Jim looked . . . better than expected. He still looked like shit, though. Thinner than ever, hollow-cheeked, wearing dark glasses inside. His hair was a little longer and he was wearing loose clothing in subdued colors. Lines of pain were etched on his face. On the positive side, he appeared relaxed and was smiling-- a decided improvement over the last few times they had met. Especially the dreadful meeting over three months ago in which Jim handed over the determination of his disability, as well as his badge and gun.

Simon took a big gulp of his beer, and almost wished he hadn't. "Shit," he gasped. "What is this stuff?"

Jim grinned, a welcome sight. "Puts hair on your chest, doesn't it? It's all-natural, unpasturized, organic honey beer."

Frowning at his glass, Simon said doubtfully, "Organic beer?"

"Yeah. About all I can drink these days. It's not too bad once you get used to it, though."

Simon looked up quickly, hearing the dry tone. "Hmm." He tried another sip. Strong, but with a fruity bite that was strange, but not too bad. "I guess I could get used to it. I guess I can't complain either--you've had to get used to a lot of new things, haven't you? So, how's it going, really?"

Smiling a small, twisted smile, Jim poured himself another glass from the pitcher. "Not so bad. Not so great, either, but I'm dealing."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Jim looked out the window for a few minutes. Simon waited, not wanting to rush Jim, who was a very private man.

"Some days are better than others, you know? I'm seeing Dr. Swinburne, the holistic doctor--she's pretty good, if a bit flakey. She's big on detoxification and healthy colons. She has me working with an occupational therapist, which is a waste of time, but I'm giving it a shot. The massages are great, though. Um . . . I've been spending a lot of time on the computer researching MCS, sensory disorders, all sorts of stuff, and trying out a lot of things. Lots of crackpots out there, but some things do help--like meditation for instance. Don't know why, but it seems to make things even out a lot. Of course, I can't practice on my own. Has to be 'supervised' in case I have one of my zone outs." This time Jim's tone was so dry it made Simon wince in sympathy.

"Zone outs? Is that what you call them?"

"Uh huh. They're the really scary part of all this. I mean, one minute I'm there, the next in la-la land. And I don't mean L.A."

There was silence at the table for a few moments as both men sipped their drinks and contemplated this fate.

"I'm still trying out other stuff, too, to help me out. I got myself a couple of 'helpers'"--another twist of the lips--"college kids who call me twice a day, and check up on me if I don't answer. Drive me around, shit like that. That's really the hardest, you know. I'd love to be able to drive up the coast, or go fishing, but I can't drive, and I can't go by myself."

"Well, I've got some vacation time coming up. Maybe we could do a spot of fishing."

"I'd like that, Simon." Jim fiddled with his dark glasses a bit before continuing. "What else? I've rigged up my watch to beep me every hour; bought a chiming clock, which bugs the hell out of me. I've learned some other little tricks to keep me from zoning, like playing with a worry stone when I'm trying to concentrate on hearing something." He hauled out a smooth rock from his pocket and deposited it on the table. He plucked at the soft-looking sage green sweater he was wearing. "Organic cotton clothes with all natural dyes. Little things, but they add up. I've done a lot of research on living toxin free"--Jim made air quotes--"and gotten to be really good friends with the clerks at the natural foods market."

"You don't look like you're eating much, though. You look damn thin," Simon worried.

"Yeah, food can be--well, sometimes it's great, and sometimes I can barely keep water down. Again, it's been a process of trial and error. I tell you," and he leaned forward confidentially, "one of the things that helps the most is the medical marijuana. Surprised the hell out of me."

He felt his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. "You, a doper? I don't believe it."

"Well, it's legal--prescribed by my doctor, you know, and it's pure stuff. I couldn't do street stuff. You know they douse that shit with all sorts of weird crap to try to make it stronger. The thing is, it seems to calm my senses down a bit. Or muffles them, anyway, and helps with the appetite. I practically had an orgasm the other day from eating a strawberry." Quick smile. "Helps me sleep, too, which is a major problem. The smell can get a bit much after a while, but it's either that or stay drunk, and I know for sure that way lies trouble. So, dope it is."

"Huh," said Simon, thoughtfully. Jim signaled the waiter for another pitcher.

"So, I guess you're keeping yourself busy. How, uh . . . " Simon hesitated to bring this up, but--"How are you doing for money? Are you planning on doing some kind of work from home, or something? I didn't really get a chance to ask before."

"Well, eventually, I might work something out, especially if I can get a handle on these senses. I was thinking how useful they could be in some kind of consulting. I could, I don't know--find lost people, or look for clues other people can't see or something. I figure if I can't make them go away, at least they could be useful for something." Jim smiled slightly and shrugged. "As for money--I'm fine, Simon. More than fine, actually. I had private disability insurance in addition to the department policy, as well as SS disability, and my veteran's benefits. I also have private money from my parents. I, uh, never told you this, but I had a trust fund from my mother, which I never touched, and when my dad died last year, he left me a large sum of money. All I've ever done with that stuff is invest it, so that's not really a concern for me."

This was news to Simon. Welcome news, but considering Jim's reticence about his family, it wasn't surprising that he wasn't aware of Jim's financial condition. "'Well, good. That's one thing I don't have to worry about for you."

Jim's face softened. "I appreciate your worrying about me, Simon. I don't have too many people who care."

"We all care. Megan, Rafe, Henri--they all ask about you. You should have more people around you, though. It's not good for you to be so alone. You're a fine man. What about--are you dating at all?"

This time the grimace was a full-blown scowl. "No--not . . . I've tried, Simon. A couple of times. With women and," Jim darted a look at Simon across the table, "with men. And my libido seems to be going in and out just like my senses. Mostly up, though, and going to some strange places, I have to say." His eyes crinkled around the sunglasses. "But every time I get close to someone--and I don't mean metaphorically close, I mean close enough to dance, or kiss--things go bad. People smell, I dunno--wrong."

"Wrong? What--no, I don't want to know. But, Jim," . . . Simon hesitated. "I didn't realize you liked men. You never mentioned that."

"You're my boss, Simon. I couldn't tell you. It's no big deal, really, I like women, too, but on the force it would have been. I'm not a cop anymore, though."

"And I'm not your boss anymore. I'm your friend," Simon shot back.

"Which is why I'm telling you now." Jim said.

Another pause in the conversation, during which both men concentrated on their beer. After a few moments, Simon asked, "What about that Sandburg guy your doc referred you to? Have you been able to get in touch with him? Oh, and I forgot to mention--Darryl knows him."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I thought I remembered something about a Sandburg when Darryl was at Rainier and asked him about it. Apparently he's a pretty popular teacher. Almost made Darryl change his major to anthropology." Simon felt a wave of relief, as he thought of his son, now majoring in pre-law at UCLA, far away from the Most Dangerous City in America.

Jim let out a small snort. "Yeah, he's popular all right. It's weird; his name seems to pop up a lot. A lot of people know him. My occupational therapist recommended him to me independently of Dr. McKay's referral, and both student helpers have heard of him. I still don't know what they expect him to do for me. I researched him a bit--he's some kind of young hotshot anthropologist. Got a dozen papers to his name all on stuff that makes no sense to me. Relationship between environment and culture type of stuff. And a lot of mumbo-jumbo. He was profiled in People magazine as a twenty-first century shaman."

"What, like Carlos Castaneda?"

"Something like that, yeah, although Castaneda has been largely discredited and this Sandburg seems to be in good odor with the academic community. The only problem is, he's been out of the country all summer studying in Borneo or someplace."

"I guess he'll be coming back pretty soon for the start of school, though, right?"

"Yeah." Jim shifted on his seat and winced as someone dropped a glass in the kitchen.

"I'm glad you seem to be coping all right. You look better than I expected."

Jim sighed. "Yeah, but coping isn't a cure. I feel like I'm slapping band aids all over me every day. But you know what? I feel . . . I don't know, I think you're right in some ways. I feel like I ought to feel worse. Does that make sense?"

"No," Simon laughed.

Jim laughed along with him. "Yeah. But--" He stopped, trying to collect his thoughts for a minute. "Some really weird things have been happening. I know I'm going crazy, but it doesn't seem so bad. It's like--I'm waiting for something."

Simon scoffed. "You're not going crazy. You're just dealing with a lot of things."

"Nah. I really am crazy, Simon."

This was bad. Jim actually looked cheerful when he said this. Was that a sign of mania? "Jim, don't talk that way. And what kind of weird things?"

"Just--weird dreams. Lots of blue. Blue eyes, blue jungle, and just plain blue. You know, as in erotic, but weird erotic. And hallucinations."

"Hallucinations!" Shit. Maybe Jim really was crazy.

"Yeah. One in particular. I keep seeing a black jaguar. Everywhere, in fact. Life size and as real as can be, except it doesn't smell real. Weird, huh?"

"Yeah." Brow furrowing, Simon considered this latest tidbit. "You mean, when you're awake?"

"Awake, asleep, and in between. In fact, I could swear sometimes--" Jim looked embarrassed. As well he should be, thought Simon.

"What?"

"Well, it's almost like he's protecting me, or helping me. Once he led me to someone who needed help--you remember that trapped kid I called in last month? And another time, I swear he brought me out of a zone. And I've seen other animals occasionally which couldn't be real. A wolf a couple of times, for instance."

Simon just stared in disbelief.

"I know, I know--that's crazy talk, but I can't help it. And don't worry--I haven't told anyone but you. They really would lock me up and throw away the key if I had. Oh, and I keep having these dreams of the Chopec in Peru."

"I thought you didn't remember anything about that time," Simon commented.

"I didn't. Not much, anyway, but I seem to be remembering some more. I keep dreaming about the tribe's shaman, Incacha. It's like--I dunno, like he's trying to tell me something."

"Like what?"

"Like--Wait. Keep on. Help is on the way." Jim sighed, looking just a little gray for a moment. "It's why I haven't given up hope and eaten my gun. Well, that and good friends like you."

Simon shuddered, warding such an evil thought away. Well, if his friend was crazy, at least his lunacy seemed to help rather than hurt. He resolved to keep a closer eye on Jim just in case. Time to change the subject.

"So, did you hear about the Matusky case?"

 

*

"Let's see: Coffee, hair ties, backpack, cell phone, notepad, class roster, coffee . . . " Blair Sandburg laughed to himself. Yep, got everything he needed to start.

He sat down at his desk and started to work through the mass of paperwork and messages accumulated in his absence and necessary to start the new term. Although excited as he always was at the beginning of the new school year, he also felt tired and a bit . . . unsettled. Some of it, he was sure, was the stress of being in the field for months and the return travel.

As for the rest . . . The young man frowned, thinking of the signs and portents which had come to him through his shamanistic skills, and in his dreams. His personal spirit animal, a particularly fine silver wolf with blue eyes, had appeared to him several times over the summer, always imparting a feeling of impatience and urgency. Blair had a feeling of anticipation; as if he were drawing close to a pivotal moment in his life. He shrugged, and resolved to do some meditation on the problem as soon as he was settled in to his normal school routine.

He looked up as one of his TAs came in. "Dr. Sandburg, here are your phone messages. There are a bunch from your publisher, and another bunch from someone named Jim Ellison." Handing Blair the stack of pink notes with a big smile, she flounced off, with rather too much bounce for it to be coincidental. Blair eyed her pink-clad backside with interest as she slipped through the door. That was another strange thing. His libido had been up--way up, and many of the stranger dreams lately had been intensely erotic. He couldn't do anything about it in the field with a bunch of students, of course, but now that he was back home--well. Although he was, frankly, getting tired of being the bee flitting from flower to flower to flower. One perfect bloom would be nice. He snorted. Blair, you're getting really silly in your old age. Horny and silly--what a perfect macho combination. He rolled his eyes for good measure. If only he could shake the feeling of expectation; of something waiting for him just around the corner.

He shuffled through the messages. His mother, three times. Did she deliberately wait until he was incommunicado? Dr. McKay, also three times. Blair vaguely remembered him. Or was that a Dr. McCoy? A Jim Ellison, multiple times. Who the heck was Jim Ellison? The name pulled at him somehow. Sipping his coffee, he almost spilled it when the phone rang. After months in the wild, it sometimes took him a while to adjust to the cacophony of modern life. "Blair Sandburg."

"Dr. Sandburg? This is Dr. Roger McKay from Sierra Cascade Hospital. We spoke at the Environmental Medicine Conference in Spokane, do you remember?"

Oh, yeah, now Blair remembered him. Older, but a fairly respected and progressive doctor, by all accounts. As always, Blair took the opportunity at conferences to spread the word about looking for people with enhanced senses, his pet project. "Of course Dr. McKay. I'm sorry I haven't returned your calls, but I just got back to the States. I was just going through my messages from the summer. What can I do for you?"

"I have a patient I'd like to refer to you. I can't, of course, reveal any particulars about his case without his express consent, but I believe that his unique symptoms would be of interest to you based on our conversations. I also think you might be able to help him. He needs a friend, Dr. Sandburg."

Out of the corner of his eye, Blair perceived movement. Turning slowly, phone still to his ear, his eyes widened as he observed the enormous black panther sprawled on his credenza. What in the world . . . ? His heart rate skyrocketing, he slowly rolled his chair back away from the apparition, just in case it was real. He responded to his caller on autopilot. "Of course I'm interested, Doctor. How do you want to proceed?"

"His name is James Ellison, a former police detective. I gave him your number. Of course, I realize you have been out of the country, until now, but I really think it would be beneficial for you both to meet as soon as possible."

Astonished, Blair turned back to his desk where the messages from Ellison were spread out. Just as he was about to reply, Dr. McKay interrupted him. "Excuse me for a moment, Dr. Sandburg. I've got an urgent call."

Put on hold, Blair swung back around, but the panther, if it was ever there at all, was gone. Boy, thought Blair, gotta lay off the coffee on top of jet lag. In a moment, though, Dr. McKay was back on the line, his voice squeaking with urgency.

"Dr. Sandburg, I've just got an urgent call regarding Mr. Ellison. Would you be able to meet me at his residence? The paramedics have been called, but I'd like you there if possible. It's 852 Prospect, Unit 307."

"What is the nature of the emergency?" Blair asked, beginning to scramble to his feet. Talk about synchronicity. His shamanistic senses began to scream at him.

"Mr. Ellison is subject to absence seizures, and apparently he's completely unresponsive at this time. I'd like for you to observe, if you can."

"I'm coming right now." After giving Dr. McKay his cell phone number, Blair hurried out of his office, breathless with excitement and anticipation.

There was no mistaking the place. Cop cars and an ambulance were sprawled haphazardly in front of 852 Prospect and there were cops and bystanders milling around. Blair parked his newish Volvo sedan as close as he could to the chaos. Heading for the entrance to the building, he thought he saw a flash of fluffy wolf tail ascending the stairs. Blair increased his pace. This is it, he thought. This is what I've been waiting for!

Sprinting up the stairs, he had no problem identifying the apartment on the third floor where all the action was. Cops were stationed outside the door of the apartment, and there was a lot of noise as orders were relayed and radios squawked. He approached the cops at the door. "Hi, I'm Dr. Sandburg. Dr. McKay called me in to consult." He fished his driver's license out of his wallet and showed it to them. No need to mention what kind of doctor. He spotted McKay hovering around a figure laying supine on the floor. He couldn't get a close look at the patient, because the paramedics were also busily fussing over him. There seemed to be a lot of people about, including a couple of kids Blair thought he recognized from the university, making the space seemed cramped.

As he moved closer, he could see that they had an oxygen mask over the man's face, but his eyes were open, staring unresponsively, and he was lying quite still. He looked dead, Blair thought in panic. But, no--his chest was rising and falling with his breathing.

The atmosphere in the apartment changed subtly. Blair felt as if he were walking in mud. His steps brought him closer to the man on the floor, as if in slow motion. He barely acknowledged Dr. McKay's greeting, and he ignored the working paramedics completely. All his attention was now focused on the man himself. Jim Ellison. A large man, a strong man, but one in pain, Blair could see. Without realizing it, Blair began to breathe deeply and rhythmically, instinctively letting his Shamanistic training take over. His eyes unfocused, allowing him to glimpse the unseen. The sounds of the real world faded, and the light acquired a faint blue tinge.

Blair knelt on the floor in front of the man. The paramedics were talking to him, but he couldn't hear them. All he could hear were the sound of drums--or was it the heartbeat of the man? Slowly, he reached out a hand through the blue light and laid it on Ellison's forehead. The shock of connection burst through him. He spoke: "James, come back. I call you back from your wandering. Come back to me."

Immediately, or so it seemed, the man shuddered, drawing a deep breath through the oxygen mask. He thrashed, and blinked his eyes rapidly, then closed them. After a few moments, the incredible blue eyes opened again, and Ellison tore off the oxygen mask, ignoring the protests of the paramedics. Nostrils flaring, he looked straight into Blair's eyes and gasped, "Songqually."

 

*

Most of the people had cleared out by now, and Blair could see how spacious the loft really was. All that remained were himself, Ellison, a very large black man who seemed to be in charge of the cops, and Dr. McKay, who was trying to exert control over his recently resurrected patient. "Jim. Be reasonable--you were out for two hours. I just want you to come in overnight for observation."

"No. No way." Ellison was adamant. He was sitting up on the couch now, most of the color back in his face, but with clear evidence of the strain of his ordeal remaining. "I'm fine. I just want peace and quiet," he said in response to the doctor's pleas, but he was looking straight at Blair.

Blair took the opportunity to introduce himself. "Hi. My name is Blair Sandburg. From Rainier University. I believe you've been trying to reach me? I happened to be on the phone with Dr. McKay when he got the call about your . . . episode. I hope you don't mind me crashing your party." Jim hadn't seemed like he minded when he "awoke," judging by his astonishing utterance. Songqually meant "beloved" in Quechua. Blair wondered if Ellison remembered saying it.

Ellison's eyes flicked to the left, behind Blair and widened. Blair turned to see what he was looking at and felt his eyes widening himself. There, over by the kitchen area, his spirit wolf and the black jaguar he'd seen briefly in his office were winding round and round each other. He could hear the cat purr, and his wolf was happily licking the cat's ears. Oh, boy, Blair thought. I'm in big trouble. He turned back to find Ellison watching him speculatively. McKay and the large black man were talking over Ellison's head and ignoring both of them. Well, in for a penny, he thought, and put as much warmth as he could in his smile.

"Hey, Chief," said Ellison softly, smiling in return. "Thanks for calling me back. I've been waiting for you." Then a cloud crossed his face, and he looked confused. He passed a hand over his head, nervously. "Christ. I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm saying half the time, these days."

"It's okay. We'll work it out." What exactly they were going to work out remained to be seen, but Blair felt drawn to this man in a way he'd never experienced before. He certainly was handsome, even with the evidence of long illness and pain revealed on his face and body. Blair wondered if Jim was a bouquet or single stem kind of man.

"Dr. Sandburg? I wonder if I could have a word with you." Blair turned to the older man. "This is Captain Simon Banks, a friend of Mr. Ellison's. He's agreed to stay with him for now." Blair shook hands with Banks, thinking that it was good Ellison had a friend. McKay continued. "Jim, with your permission, I'd like to go over the details of your case with Dr. Sandburg here. As I told you, although not a medical doctor, he's an expert in the interaction between culture, environment, and the senses, and I think he can help you."

An expert in Sentinels, Blair thought, but didn't say. Although he had written a number of theoretical papers on the subject, he'd never located a live one. He had a feeling his luck was about to change.

Jim gestured, wearily. "Yeah, sure, go ahead. At this point, I'll take all the help I can get. I think I'm just going to take a nap. Is that all right with you, Simon?" Banks nodded his agreement.

After phone numbers were exchanged, and plans were made for follow-up, Blair prepared to leave with Dr. McKay to review Ellison's file. He couldn't resist a last, lingering look at the man who was now stretched out comfortably on the couch in the muted lights of the loft. Blair couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw one long-fingered hand caressing a sleek black shape. Well, this was certainly going to be interesting.

 

*

The following evening, Blair found himself walking up the apartment stairs again, lugging a duffle bag and his laptop. His nerves were singing and his heart was pounding. From what Dr. McKay had told him, this could be the real thing. A real, live, Sentinel! All five senses enhanced, and a protector of the public to boot, even if currently not working as such. It was Holy Grail time! Now all he had to do was . . . . His thoughts were cut off as the door to 307 opened abruptly while Blair was still looking for a doorbell. Standing there, like a tall drink of water in the desert, was Jim Ellison, a smile on his face.

"Hi there, Chief. Heard you coming." Of course he heard you coming, Blair, you dumbass. Who needs a doorbell with a Sentinel in residence? "Come on in."

Blair shuffled in, maneuvering his burdens awkwardly. "What you got there, Blair? It is Blair, right? I'm Jim. But, uh . . . I guess you know that," Ellison said, sounding a little nervous himself. He reached for the duffle. "Ugh, what's in here? Bricks?"

Laughing, Blair replied, "No, no! Mostly books. And um, clothes, and stuff."

Jim's eyebrows rose on his handsome face. "Oh, yeah? Moving in?"

Earnestly, Blair began laying out his plan. "Dr. McKay filled me in on your condition. He felt that you needed some company for a while, like a spotter, you know, to prevent what happened yesterday from happening again. I'll be quiet, I promise. I saw you have a little extra bedroom or office or something. All I need is a bedroll. You won't even know I'm here. I've got some ideas that will help you control your senses. I really think I can help you, Jim. It'll work out great, you'll see." Blair bounced back on his heels, anxiously awaiting a response.

Jim seemed amused at his rapid patter, Blair noted in relief. The tall man crossed his arms and attempted to look stern. "Well . . . okay. But just for one week, you understand? One week!"

Oh yeah. Things were going to work out just fine. After all, one week wasn't exactly a life time. Right?

**Author's Note:**

> my first Sentinel story, and one I still enjoy.
> 
> The "spotter" is a nod toward my favorite SF character, Lois Bujold's Miles Vorkosigan, whose atypical seizure disorder is, alas, not Sentinel related.


End file.
